


a cabin and a dog and skye with no last name

by redbrunja



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breakfast, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Grant Ward/33 BROTP, Happy Ending, Hotel Sex, Humor, Kissing, Kitchen Sex, Off-screen torture, Oral Sex, Skye/33 BROTP, Smut, So much kissing, seriously all the kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He knows the mission has turned out to be a bad one when he wakes up with Skye tucked against his left side, her fingers slowly tracing the scars she'd given him, years ago.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Grant Ward, Skye with no last name, and their happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dear forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.

_dear forgiveness, I saved a plate for you._

 

He knows the mission has turned out to be a bad one when he wakes up with Skye tucked against his left side, her fingers slowly tracing the scars she'd given him, years ago.

 

Ward doesn't need to see her face to know that she's wearing a pensive expression. He turns his head, kisses the top of hers.

 

Her fingers stay on his scars. She has tendency to touch them, when she's feeling guilty, when she's counting her dead; Ward has yet to find the right way to explain to her that he's grown fond of them, pleased that she's left a tangible mark on him. Shooting him had never been something she needed to apologize for.

  
"Hey," she says, finally.

 

"Skye," he answers.

 

She shifts, kisses the skin just below his pectoral.

 

Everything in him goes taut.

 

She pushes herself to her hands and knees, hovers over him while she trails kisses down his torso. She traces his abdominals with her tongue, quick and flickering, a contrast to how she's slowly stroking his sides, dropping her hands lower, her fingertips making maddening circles on his thighs. He can't help but shift under her.

 

She draws it out, her mouth moving slow and teasing down his chest, down his belly, until she finally wraps her lips around his cock. She moans when she does, like this is giving her even a fraction of the pleasure he's taking.

 

Ward tangles his hands in her hair, winding the long, dark strands around his fingers, pulling just a touch as her head bobs, as she sucks him lazy and torturously slow, ratcheting his pleasure higher and higher until he comes in her hot mouth.

 

She swallows him down, licks him clean.

 

After, Skye curls up tight against his side. He threads his fingers through hers before she can go back to tracing his scars, brings her hand to his mouth.

 

"Wanna talk about it?" he asks.

 

She shakes her head.

 

He kisses the back of her hand, the tips of each finger. He nips her ring finger gently and he feels her smile against his skin. He lowers her hand, places it on his chest. He untangles the fingers of his other hand, begins to stroke her hair soothingly. Slowly, he hears her breathing deepen, hears her drop off into sleep.

 

He thinks about the first time she'd sucked him off. They'd be fucking for months at that point.

 

At the time, he hadn't known if Skye didn't like giving blowjobs in general, or if she just didn't want to go down on _him_.

 

When Ward had been her SO, she'd made enough sideways comments about bad places she'd been in before Coulson had found her that it could have been either; he wasn't going to ask. Not when the things she said yes to included: her tugging on his hair while he licked and sucked her cunt; her tiny, tiny hands moving so sure and so perfect on his cock; the tight, wet heat of her as she rode him, her nails leaving beautifully stinging scratches along his shoulders.

 

A complete rat-trap of a hotel in Valparaíso and they kiss in the middle of the bed, Skye straddling him, grinding down when he licks into her mouth.

 

She tugs off his shirt, leans back. She's clearly admiring the view, and Ward props himself on his elbows, watches her eyes track across his shoulders, down his chest.

 

Skye's hair is pulled back, little pieces falling out of her ponytail to frame her face.

 

He wants to tuck the strands behind her ears, wants to pull her mouth back down to his.

 

He waits, because there is some calculation going on behind Skye's eyes, and the voice that says 'see how this plays out' is just slightly louder than the one that goes, 'thinking about this will only make her realize you're her worst mistake.'

 

Skye reaches out, unbuckles his belt. The hiss of the leather pulling free of his beltloops echoes loud in the quiet room, louder even than his pulse beating his throat. She undoes his fly and he lifts his hips, helps her shove his pants and boxers down far enough to free his cock.

 

She scoots a little further back on the bed. She tilts her head to the side, cracking her neck, and then leans down, her mouth sliding hot over his erection.

 

Skye has tension all through her shoulders, he can see in the line of her spine, her hands curled into tight fists as her mouth moves so sure over him, drags waves of pleasure from him. She's careful with her teeth, almost too careful, he doesn't trust that she's not going to bite and fuck, that just makes everything hotter. He wants to bury his hands in her hair, run a finger along the line of her ear, but doesn't quite dare touch her.

 

She presses her tongue along the bottom of his cock, swirls it around the head and he slams his fist upwards into the headboard.

 

Skye flicks her gaze up, pauses, lips just brushing his skin, and then she lowers her mouth again.

 

When he comes, he sees white.

 

He's speechless.

 

He lies there gasping in this crappy hotel room and he feels, he feels–

 

She's laughing, this giddy, delighted sound. He'd thought it was impossible to forget anything about Skye, but maybe he has, because can't remember hearing her ever sound this happy, her laughter feeling new and precious and all his. He doesn't even care that she's clearly laughing at him.

 

Skye starts to move away, clearly heading to the bathroom, and that - that gets him moving. He grabs her arm, yanks her down on the bed, and he kisses her hard, kisses the taste of his spunk from her mouth. Kisses her cheeks, her eyebrows. He covers her face with kisses and then nips the lobe of her ear on his way to her neck. He dusts kisses along the column of her throat. He peels off her top, laves his tongue across her nipples, cups her glorious breasts in his hands. She gasps when he caresses her skin -so soft- with his rough hands. Later, he's going to spend more time on that, he's going to pluck at her tits and suck them until she's squirming and begging for more, but now - now he wrestles off her shorts and underwear and kisses down, down, down, to where she's slick and hot and wet. When he curls his tongue inside her, she comes crying his name.

 

 

~~~~

 

The next morning, Skye sits on the kitchen counter, kicking her legs back and forth. She's wearing one of his henleys, her wet hair dampening the shoulders of the fabric, making it cling to the tops of her breasts, and a pair of striped knee socks that he knows she bought specifically to torment him.

 

The waffle iron beeps, and Ward stops watching her wonderfully expressive face be adorably impatient in favor of plating the first waffle and handing it to her.

 

She slathers the thing in butter and syrup while he pours the next waffle.

 

"So good," Skye says, with a little pleased, humming sound that Ward's used to hearing when she's riding his tongue.

 

"But do you know what would make this waffle _even better?"_ she continues. She runs one stockinged foot down his bare back.

 

He turns, watches her peel a piece of waffle apart, lean down to feed it to Pounce. When she shifts, he can see the light blue of her panties, flashing between her legs.

 

The dog delicately takes the food from her hand, gulps it down, and goes back to staring worshipfully at Skye.

 

Ward makes his face look extra stern, as if that makes up for the fact that he's about to listen to her make a case for adding caramel  bits or chocolate chips to the batter.

 

"Rainbow sprinkles," she finishes. There's color in her cheeks, even if the skin under her eyes is still hollow and faintly bruised.

 

She cuts a bite of waffle. "Try," she says, holding her fork up to towards him. "You'll see I'm right. _Try it_."

 

He doesn't.

 

She's right there, sitting on the counter, looking like half a dozen fantasies, and he can kiss her, so he does.

 

She immediately drops the fork (Pounce shoves by the back of Ward's legs to go after the bit of waffle), wraps her arms around him and kisses him back.  Mint toothpaste and syrup, her mouth is impossibly sweet.

 

He kisses her until she's gasping, fingers clenching and unclenching on his shoulders, and then he goes to his knees. She scoots to the edge of the counter, spreads her legs for him.

 

He brushes his thumb up the length of her slit, over the cotton of her underwear, playing with her until the fabric is damp, until she's shifting restlessly on the counter top, thighs quivering. He hooks his fingers in the gusset of her panties, pulls them to one side. She's flushed pink and glistening, and he can't help the wrecked, pleased sound he makes. She drapes her legs over his shoulders without prompting and he traces the delicate folds of her cunt, works her over until his mouth is slick, until all he can taste is salt and Skye and sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my totally self-indulgent happily-ever-after for Skye and Ward. I wanted to write something that was fluffy but acknowledged their history with each other. There are six bonus ficlets in this verse that I'll be posting over the next week two weeks. Finally, much love to my beta reader catteo, who made this fic about a million times better than it would be otherwise.


	2. something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, these ficlets start prior to the first chapter and will continue past it.

_I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation._

 

Ward knows the instant Skye snaps out of sleep because she jerks away from him. She almost falls off the hotel bed and when he reaches for her, she flinches even further away from his touch.

 

Ward curls his fingers into a fist, forces himself not to move after her. He looks at her tangled hair, the rigid line of her shoulders. Three breaths ago, her head had been pillowed on his stomach, one arm casually flung across his body. Three hours ago, she'd been digging her heels into his back, begging for him to fuck her harder.

 

Now, she won't even look at him, her gaze fixed on the other side of the room.

 

Skye pulls in an uneven breath, shoulders lowering a fraction, and something like hope twists hard in his chest.

 

"Do you know where my underwear is?" she asks, attempting to keep her voice expressionless. She doesn't manage it; she just sounds ashamed.

 

He's not disappointed. Not at all.

 

Ward shrugs, fixes an unconcerned expression on his face for whenever she decides to look at him again. He props his head on his fist, settles in to enjoy the view.

 

The last time he saw her underwear, he was pulling it off with his teeth. She might try looking under the bed.

 

Skye goes to check under the table, peering around the chairs to see if pink cotton was caught anywhere. Mistake. She'd been completely naked when he'd laid her out on the tabletop, brought her off with his dick moving smoothly in and out of her, his thumb circling her clit. She'd looked glorious when she'd came, her back arching, biting down on the side of her hand to muffle her cry, her pussy clenching tight around him.

 

Skye shots him an irritated look. Or tries to, at least. Her gaze snags on his body. He sees her eyes get all soft and dark. He's just thinking that he's going to get to go another round with her before she storms back to SHIELD and Coulson when the door opens.

 

Skye flings herself under the bed.

 

"That fence is useless," Agent 33 says as she stalks in and then freezes.

 

He isn't sure what 33 spots first: the orange bra dangling  from the mirror; him, naked; or the adorable feet with silver-painted toes just vanishing under the bed.

 

Ward casually pulls the sheet across his lap.

 

There is a long pause.

 

"Agent Skye," 33 says eventually.

 

An even longer pause.

 

"....Agent 33," comes from under the bed.

 

33 looks over at the hotel room's second, still neatly-made bed and then back at Ward, eyes narrowed. "If you fucked in my bed, I'm going to be annoyed."

 

"We didn't," Skye said, not coming out.

 

True. Just on the table, the shower, against the dresser, and twice in his bed....

 

"Um... could someone hand me my pants?" Skye asks.

 

Ward doesn't move.

 

Agent 33 exhales. She snags Skye's clothes from various locations around the room, drops them at the foot of the bed. Skye extends an arm, pulls her clothes under the bed with her. He can feel her wiggling around, hears a couple of muffled _fucks_ and one distinct _ow_ as she gets dressed.

 

Skye crawls from under the bed, grabs her boots, and hi-tails it out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

 

"You're an asshole," Agent 33 says conversationally.

 

Ward decides going to take a shower is the most tactically sound action at this juncture.


	3. okay, so I’m the dragon. big deal.

33 calls instead of texts, and Ward steps out onto the balcony before he picks up.

 

There is a pause, neither of them wanting to speak first.

 

Ward keeps his eyes on Skye through the glass door. She continues to lie in a miserable heap under the covers, face scrunched up with discomfort, cheeks bright with fever.

 

Over the line, he can hear muffled sounds, like someone trying to beg around a gag in his mouth.

 

He'll count that as speaking first.

 

"Everything alright, 33?" he asks.

 

"Is Skye still sick?" she says brusquely.

 

"Yes, she's sleeping."

 

In the same way that he can draw an accurate map of the Paris Underground, he knows that Skye not going to Simmons when she has a fever hovering around a hundred is a bad sign: that she doesn't feel SHIELD is safe for her; that she suspects Jemma is connected to Bakshi's escape; that her thinking is compromised by her illness. But he can't force himself to care. Not when she'd shown up at the door of his hotel and practically fallen into his arms. Anyone at SHIELD would have put cold, damp cloths on her forehead and made her drink her liquids and made sure she was taking Tylenol every five hours exactly. But she'd _chosen_ to come to him for help.

 

"Put her on," 33 orders.

 

Agent 33 doesn't trust him with Skye. She always asks to speak directly with the other woman. It's partially because, he's learned, 33 is particularly protective of younger women. It's partially because Ward was honest about Skye to 33, back when his bullet wounds were half-healed and he was sure the next time Skye saw him, she'd be smart and take headshots. Whether Ward finds 33's distrust reassuring or insulting depends on the day.

 

Today it's deeply irritating.

 

"Ward," 33 snaps.

 

Ward stands in the sunshine, debates.

 

"Fine," he says, mainly because when the information on Bakshi's location had come in, she'd practically demanded he stay with a febrile Skye instead of watching her six.

 

Regretting that he'd wrapped Bakshi up and put him in Coulson's lap when he could have just put a bullet in Bakshi's head, he goes inside, shakes Skye's shoulder gently.

 

"Kara wants to speak with you," he whispers.

 

"Is she okay?" Skye mumbles, taking the phone. "You okay? Did you find him?"

 

Ward keeps his head close enough to hear Kara's affirmative answer.

 

"'K, Careful." Skye continues vaguely, already falling back asleep. "Don't turn.... do you want me to send Ward? ...No, 'm fine."

 

Ward slips the phone out of her slack fingers, put a hand on her forehead. The Tylenol isn't keeping her fever down. He might have to take her to a hospital after all. Or, worse, call her father. 

 

"Do you need me to finish quickly?" 33 asks, sounding like she is dreading the answer.

 

"There's no need to rush on our account," Ward replies. He knows how hard Kara worked to find Bakshi before SHIELD. He knows the ways in which Hydra ripped her apart and wiped her clean and then used her as they liked. She deserves to have all the fun she wants with Bakshi.

 

"Give Bakshi my regards," he says.

 

33 almost laughs and he hears the metallic clink of one metal tool knocking against another before she disconnects.

 

Ward steps back into the hotel room, settles himself into the uncomfortable hotel chair.

 

Under the covers, Skye shivers.


	4. the part where I push you flush against the wall

_the part where I push you flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks, shut up I’m getting to it._

Ward nurses his whiskey, elbows resting on the polished bar, and watches 33 work on chatting up a lovely blonde with a great rack and a decent-enough looking man with too much hair product.

 

A man clocks Ward, walks toward him. He moves like a civilian.

 

"No," Ward says bluntly when the man opens his mouth.

 

"Fuck you, then," the other man replies.

 

"I already said I wasn't interested," Ward says, and knocks back the rest of his drink. He gestures to the bartender for another and the guy gets the hint and leaves.

 

He'd been planning on staying sober tonight but it turns out he was in a worse mood than he'd realized.

 

Kara Palamas, Agent 33 of the fallen Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, got her real face back today.

 

Skye had snuck Fitz off SHIELD's base, and Fitz had spent most of the afternoon repairing the circuits burned to 33's face and then peeling the mask away. Skye had rested her hand on Kara's, kept up a steady stream of chatter while Fitz worked.

 

Ward had known his presence wouldn't be helpful; he'd prowled the perimeter of the hotel, checking on various radio frequencies, making sure that they weren't going to be interrupted.

 

He'd slipped back in the hotel room after Fitz and Skye were gone, when Kara was in the bathroom, running the shower so that he couldn't hear that she was crying.

 

She'd come out fifteen minutes later, with red-rimmed eyes and fresh lipstick, hair brushed into a low ponytail.

 

"We're going clubbing," she'd declared, her voice sounding smooth and foreign. Ward focused on memorizing her new features, lined them up with quirks of her inflection and body language.

 

Going to a loud, obnoxious club with irritating lighting and bad music wasn't how Ward would choose to celebrate anything.

 

He watches as Kara heads toward the exit with her hand in the back pocket of the blonde's leather pants, the dude she was chatting with already nuzzling at her neck.

 

Clearly, Kara has more fun at clubs than he does.

 

He turns back to his drink. He'd seen Skye for exactly six seconds today, as she hustled Fitz into the hotel room and he slipped out. She'd smiled tentatively at him behind Fitz's back.

 

There have been times when that hesitant smile would have been more than enough; when he would have gladly bled for that brief moment of her attention and approval.

 

But where Skye's concerned he's greedy, gluttonous. He's memorized every inch of her skin, drawn the most glorious sounds out of her with his hands and his mouth and his cock, and the hunger for her never lessens.

 

Ward takes a swallow of whiskey, seriously considers getting completely trashed. If he got drunk enough, the bar fight he could easily incite might actually be entertaining.

 

He slowly spins his glass around.

 

_Skye_.

 

He knows that she is tucked up safe on a SHIELD base with Fitz; but his instincts are telling him she's here.

 

He flicks his gaze up to the mirror above the bar - dark hair, deep pink dress, fathomless eyes - he turns and Skye steps close.

 

She swipes his glass from his hand, finishes his drink off. He watches the delicate line of her throat as she swallows.

 

She leans in, puts her mouth next to his ear. He can feel the warmth of her breath when she asks, "Do you want to get out of here?"

 

He does.

 

He follows her out of the club's back entrance, down the fire escape.

 

Right at the bottom of the steps she turns to him, tilts her head up, and he's kissing her, his hands fisted in her hair. He kisses her desperate and hard, tilts her head back, plunders her mouth.

 

Skye makes a needy, wanting sound and he pulls just far enough way to suck in a breath.

 

"The hotel's three blocks away," he says.

 

Skye shakes her head. "I can't wait that long." She takes one of his hands, shoves it under her skirt. She's not wearing underwear.

 

He pushes her back into the shadows under the fire escape, back against the bricks. She gasps when her shoulder blades hit the rough bricks, practically crawls up his body. His hands are on her thighs, holding her up, holding her too tight, she's going to have bruises tomorrow, going to wear the shape of his fingers on her skin. Ward bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

 

She wraps her legs around his waist, manages to worm a hand between them to unzip his fly, pull out his cock. She guides him into her, and she's tight and hot and perfect.

 

Skye rolls her head back, squirms against the bricks while he drives himself into her.

 

She gasps, slings an arm around his neck, pressing her tits against his chest.

 

He hears her dress tearing, knows that the rough bricks have to be marking her up, scraping her skin, she's going to be all scrapes and bruises tomorrow but she doesn't seem to care, she keeps telling him how good this feels, how good he is, telling him how much she wants this, wants him, and that's it, he's gone, his rhythm breaks and he empties into her.

 

Through the blood pounding in his ears he can hear her disappointed exhale. 

 

He peels her legs off of him, slides her carefully to the ground. Skye raises one eyebrow in challenge. He smirks at her and gets on his knees. He lifts one of her legs over his shoulder. Skye tugs her skirt up higher. The alley is too dim for him to see anything, really, but he can smell her, the dizzying scent of her arousal, and when he licks her, pressing his tongue flat against her slit, he can taste the bitterness of his own come mixed with the taste of Skye.

 

He braces himself with a hand against the wall.

 

He makes her orgasm twice before he's finished. He eats her out until she's digging her nails into the back of his neck and fucking _keening_ , her pussy slick and swollen against his lips and tongue and teeth.

 

~~~

 

 

Across from him, Kara hums as she drags a piece of bacon through a pool of syrup. Her hair is carelessly held back in a messy bun with a ballpoint pen, last night's eyeliner is smudged across the whole of her eyelids. She has bite marks of two different sizes all along her neck and was limping slightly when she walked in the diner.

 

She keeps humming and blowing kisses at the waitress and is in the middle of consuming an order of chocolate chip pancakes, French toast with extra whipped cream, and two orders of bacon.

 

Ward is aware, abstractly, that normally he would find her blatant cheer annoying, but he's still in his own endorphin fog. To the point that the sound of the intermittently crying baby across the diner almost seems to have a pleasant under tone to the wailing.

 

He takes a sip of black coffee, tries to get his head in the game.

 

"Did Skye like the club?" Kara asks.

 

"Was Skye at the club?" Ward lies without pause, sounding genuinely puzzled.

 

For one instant Kara believes that he went back to the hotel with a random girl; her head snaps up and murder blooms in her eyes. The butter knife is in her clenched fist without Ward seeing her pick it up.

 

Then she's making this rough sound, like a cross between a laugh and a cough.

 

"Right, Ward, okay," she says, kicking him under the table. She kicks hard enough that it actually hurts. He doesn't flinch.

 

"How did she like hotel's sheets?" Kara's mouth forms a coy little moué.

 

Which makes Ward think about Skye dozing all warm and soft next to him, golden skin seeming to glow against the white bedding, love-marks along her collarbone, her shoulderblades abraded pink, last night's bruises delicately printed on her thighs. It was almost dawn before they reached the bed. As soon as they were inside the hotel room he'd tugged her into the bathroom, spun her so that her back was pressed against his chest, and fucked her up against the bathroom counter.

 

He'd been barefoot and she'd still been in her clunky black boots and it almost hadn't worked. Every thrust had rocked her up onto her tippy-toes, the muscles in her arms standing out as she braced herself on the counter but it was worth it, to get to watch her face in the mirror, to see every nuance of her expression as his cock slid in and out of her. The way she'd bitten her lip when he fingered her. She'd been so slick he'd had to drag the pads of his fingers hard, harder than he usually did, across her clit to kick her into her orgasm, to get her clenching tight around him as her face contorted with pleasure.

 

"That good, huh?" Kara says, and takes an enormous bite of pancake. "That sounds almost as fun as my evening. Speaking of my evening, did I mention–"


	5. another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other.

_another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other._

 

Ward sits on the tailgate of his truck and watches Skye practice.

 

Skye stands a ways off, in the field between the dirt road that leads back to civilization, collateral damage, and people who want them both dead, and a picturesque little lake surrounded by meadow and woods.

 

He watches her face twitch, watches her bite her bottom lip; seconds later, the ground starts rippling.

 

Next to him, the dog lifts his head excitedly, entire body quivering like he's just spotted a duck.

 

Ward automatically puts his hand on the animal's ruff, scratching gently, before remembering all the reasons he shouldn't. Still, if he lets the dog run over to Skye, like he clearly wants to do, she'll stop.

 

He lets his hand stay where it is.

 

Skye and Kara had gone out for the evening in a Girls Night Out/Fun Times Cracking Heads thing to which he was pointedly Not Invited.

 

They'd come back at 4 a.m. with ripped, dirty clothes, and this half-dead dog. The dog was starved, shuddering, one of his ears torn off, old, infected injuries and bright, fresh wounds scattered around his body.

 

Skye had said that they were just going to keep it (literally, she said it) until it was healed up, and then find it a good home or "like, a no kill shelter? That's a thing, right?"

 

Several thorough baths had revealed a dun-colored mutt with black socks, ears, and muzzle, and a month of regular meals had turned the dog's coat glossy.

 

Skye kept saying that she wasn't keeping him, but she'd gotten the dog a bright pink collar with a tag that just had _Ward's_ cell phone number on it, because "you clearly know more about dogs than I do."

 

She'd smiled at him, open and guileless, and it stung, worse than a dozen other things she'd said in the past, verbal barbs she'd intended to hurt. He'd set his jaw, hadn't looked at her.

 

The dog had stopped flinching and starting approaching them and asking to be petted. Ward couldn't help responding to the animal even while mentally listing all the reasons he shouldn't.

 

"You're weirdly good at that," Skye had said at one point, when the dog was wiggling on the floor in ecstasy while Ward rubbed his belly. He hadn't explained.

 

Skye's face smoothes in concentration and the ground begins to undulate, the motion deeper, almost controlled.

 

This is too much for the dog to resist; he leaps from Ward's side and bounces across the ground. He bows low, wiggles his rear end, and pounces across the waves of moving earth.

 

"Ward?" Skye asks. "Is he... playing? He's not afraid?"

 

The ground slowly stills.

 

The dog waves his tail frantically, bounces on his front legs.

 

"Clearly," Ward answers.

 

Skye flicks her fingers at the dog and the ground between them ripples like a pond disturbed by a skipped stone.

 

The dog dashes forward, patting the ground like he's trying to catch it and then continues over to Skye. He shoves his head against her hand, presses his body against her legs.

 

"Pounce!" she bursts out.

 

It takes Ward a minute to realize what she means.

 

"Skye, 'Pounce' is a terrible name for a dog," he comments, loud enough that he's sure she hears him clearly.

 

"We're not calling our dog, 'Dog,' Ward," Skye snaps at him.

 

The words hang in the air.

 

Skye's eyes get big but she doesn't backpeddle.

 

"Pounce works," Ward manages to finally force out of his dry throat.


	6. love always wakes the dragon

_love always wakes the dragon._

 

Skye moves over him, riding him strong and sure. He keeps his hands on her hips, watches her move, watches her bite her lip. The stars are bright above them, and they seem to cling to her hair, dust her shoulders. The moon is three-quarters full, and its light turns her skin luminous.

 

He flips her. They've done this enough, done this so many times, that she moves exactly how he wants her to. She drags one leg higher up his side, digs the heel of her other foot into his lower back. He hooks his arm under her left leg, pushes it higher still, and fucks into her hard, deep.

 

She arches her back and _moans_ , nails scrabbling at his shoulders.

 

"Yes, Ward, like that," she says, writhing under him, so, so, so close. "Almost, I'm almost–" So is he.

 

She slips a hand between them, and all it takes is the press of her fingers on her clit and then she's coming, spasming around him, and his rhythm is gone and so is he and he pounds into her for another handful of thrusts, hard and greedy and selfish and then she's clenching around him again, so fucking sweetly, and he climaxes with a harsh cry.

 

They spend a few moments panting, clinging to each other. Ward will never get tired, never take for granted, Skye's small, strong fingers clutching at him.

 

There are crickets and night insects chirping, and an owl hoots about a half a mile away. Pounce kicks at his collar in his sleep.

 

Ward rolls onto his back.

 

Six months ago, they'd fucked here, and Skye had set off his truck's alarm, knocked a dozen trees down, sent half the water in the lake surging upwards into the hills opposite, and silenced every animal within ten miles.

 

She'd curled into a ball, after, shaking from her orgasm, shaking from other things. She'd sobbed, these tiny, exhausted sounds that couldn't completely erase the sense of smug superiority in his chest.

 

Next to him, Skye gets on her knees, starts rummaging through her pack. She pulls out her miniaturized seismograph. He could tell her what it is going to say.

 

"Yes," Skye hisses, with a triumphant fist pump.  "Yes, I can masturbate on the Bus again."

 

Yeah, Kara had told him about that one. Skye had almost sent the entire plane into the Pacific Ocean. Jemma had apparently been the one to realize what was happening and drag Skye out of the shower. The details were fuzzy, Kara had been giggling too hard to be coherent. He hadn't even known she could giggle.

 

"This is awesome... oh my god Grant are you seriously pouting right now?"

 

No.

 

"You are!" Skye laughs, bare-breasted, the sweat on her skin gleaming in the moonlight. He doesn't even care that she is laughing at him.

 

She crawls toward him, leans down to kiss his nose.

 

"You were wonderful as always... wait, no, no, I changed my mind, those orgasms were sub-par," she can barely speak for laughing, scrambling up to straddle his head. "You really should–"

 

Ward has to consciously force himself to move away, to squirm out from under her spread thighs, but it's worth it, more than worth it, to make Skye grab his hair and tug him back, manhandling him until she has his mouth on her cunt.


	7. let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany

_let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany_

 

Skye pushes her sunglasses up onto her forehead, the wind from the open windows whipping her hair around her shoulders.

 

Unlike Ward, Skye found the prospect of driving through Texas appealing instead of irritating and time consuming. She'd spent the last several hours singing along with the radio while Ward watched the road, Skye, the unchanging scenery, the sleeping dog in the backseat, Skye, some more unchanging scenery. He still can't believe he lost the coin toss regarding who got to take the hydra jet. He's sure Kara cheated.

 

"Come here," Skye says, gesturing.

 

"Hmm?" he responds, already leaning towards her.

 

Without really looking away from the road, she touches his chin, positions his head how she likes, and presses a quick kiss to his left cheekbone.

 

She's started doing things like that without hesitation lately, these careless, playful gestures of affection. Like she loves him. Like he's a man who hasn't ever hurt her.

 

She clearly sees his expression in her peripheral vision; she smiles.

 

"You freckles were looking particularly cute," she says loftily.

 

He doesn't know what to say to that; and then he doesn't have to respond, because Pounce wakes up, decides that Skye is having fun without him, and shoves his nose right behind Ward's ear.

 

Ward almost twitches through the door panel, swallows back the whine that rises in his throat.

 

Skye laughs so hard she almost swerves into the other lane.

 

He pushes Pounce away, but rubs behind the dog's ears as he does so. The dog whuffs happily, leans into his touch

 

Skye is still giggling. She reaches awkwardly back, pats Pounce under his chin.

 

"You're such a clever boy," she praises.

 

Ward catches sight of his expression in the side view mirror - he has this pathetic, sappy grin on his face and he swipes his wrist across his mouth, as if he could wipe away the expression like he could wipe away blood.


	8. let me make a thing of cream and stars

_let me make a thing of cream and stars_

 

Building the outdoor speakers into the deck had been a good call. Even if Skye's taste in music is atrocious.

 

She's dancing on the porch to some cheery, incomprehensible song, spinning around in the sunlight. Pounce dashes around her, nipping at her skirt and she laughs.

 

Ward leans in the doorway with a beer, watches her.

 

She twirls her way over to him, deliberately fetches up against him. She hooks her fingers around his belt, plucks the beer out of his hand. She keeps her eyes on his while she drinks.

 _  
_The second the bottle leaves her lips, he cups the back of her neck, pulls her in for a kiss. Her mouth is slick from her chapstick, cool from his beer. She tastes like hops and Skye and happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my totally self-indulgent happily-ever-after for Skye and Ward. I wanted to write something that was fluffy but acknowledged their history with each other. There are seven bonus ficlets in this verse that I'll be posting over the next week two weeks. Finally, much love to my beta reader catteo, who made this fic about a million times better than it would be otherwise.


End file.
